


Never What It Seems

by LilyK



Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: Case Fic, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-27 05:23:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20942960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyK/pseuds/LilyK
Summary: After hearing distressing news about a close friend, Cowley asks Bodie and Doyle to discover the truth about the man.





	Never What It Seems

"Bodie. Doyle. Come in and pour us all a dram." 

Cowley looked tired, and to Bodie he seemed smaller, shrunken somehow. His eyes had bags under them. Bodie liked the old man. He was the only male figure he'd had around that cared about him since his granddad had died when he was ten. Now Father looked downright ill. He tamped down his concern. Cowley would not accept pity from any man, woman, or child. 

Bodie exchanged a concerned glance with Doyle. His partner raised his eyebrow and nodded slightly. So Doyle saw itCowley shifted through several of the files on the desk before he pulled out one folder in particular. Much to Bodie's surprise, he tossed it across the room. 

Cowley looked shocked at his own action. He slowly sank back, his lips a tight line. 

Bodie half rose, hand outstretched, reaching to help if he could. Doyle hurried over and set a glass down on Cowley's desk. 

"Drink this, sir," 

"Oh, aye, lad. Cheers." He lifted the glass to sip. 

Bodie was dismayed to see that Cowley's hand shook. "Sir?" he asked, unable to keep the concern from his voice. 

Doyle placed a glass in front of Bodie and sat down. "Is there anything-" 

Cowley cut him off curtly. "3.7, I didn't call you and 4.5 in my office to listen to prattle. I have an assignment for you." 

"Yes, sir," Bodie said with a nod. He finished his drink, putting the glass down quietly. The air itself seemed stifling. He didn't like the old man looking and sounding so out of sorts. 

After a moment's pause, Cowley said, "You will recall that three weeks ago a friend of mine passed away. Reginald Moore. Far too young... Traffic accident. He was barely over forty-eight. Waste of a good life." 

"Yes, I read about his service in the paper," Doyle said. 

"You went to his memorial, if I recall correctly, sir," Bodie said. 

"Yes. Yes, I did." Once again Cowley fell silent.

Doyle leaned forward. "Mr Cowley, if there's something we can do..." 

"There is." Cowley cleared his throat and sat up, straightening his shoulders. "Forgive me. I've had a shock. I'm all right now. Reggie... I need the utmost discretion from the both of you. You will answer to me and no one else. You will speak to no one else about your investigation." His tone was firm. "You will be sure to conduct all interviews in this case as if each and every one of the people you speak with are made of egg shells. Am I clear?" 

The look Doyle gave Bodie was one of confusion. "Or course, Mr Cowley." 

"I expect you to keep Mr Bodie's ribald sense of humour under control, 4.5, or you will both find yourselves on reprimand!" Cowley's face reddened. 

Bodie knew his mouth fell open. Doyle had sat back and was examining his fingernails. There was one thing Father wasn't and that was unfair. He might put them... he did put them in danger all the time, but he wasn't usually like this. At the moment, he was beyond unfair. He was verging on unjustified and unprovoked anger towards them. What had they done? 

Clearing his throat, Doyle said, "Sir, excuse me, but we've not a clue what you want. Have we done something to warrant your anger?" 

While Doyle tried to probe their boss, Bodie held his breath. The time had finally come, then. Cowley had found out about he and Doyle, about their physical relationship, and he was horrified that two of his agents were lovers-- two of his male agents at that. That would go down a real treat. 

But that made no sense. Neither of them had anything to do with Reginald Moore. They'd never even met the bloke. Nothing seemed to make sense at the moment. Besides Cowley had said any interviews were sensitive. It wasn't about them at all. Bodie made sure he did not sigh aloud with relief. 

Finally Cowley seemed to calm. He took a deep breath before slowly releasing it. "Reginald Moore and I had been friends for more than fifteen years. I'd been to his flat for special occasions such as his daughter's birthday parties and her graduation from university. She's twenty-four now, and a fine young lady, albeit still in shock over the loss of her dear father." 

Bodie sat still, not wanting to disturb Cowley's recitation. As long as it didn't involve he or Doyle, or the discovery of their relationship, he was relieved and happy to ignore Cowley's earlier harsh words . 

"Yesterday Stella called me and asked me to visit her at her home. I was extremely busy as you know with the Khamal business but she burst into tears as we spoke. I couldn't refuse her in the end. She wouldn't come to the office, and now I understand why. 

"I don't want to taint your investigation in any way but she showed me some personal papers that could indicate that Reggie- Excuse me." Cowley cleared his throat. Once again, he wiped his glasses with a clean handkerchief. After a long pause, he said, "There might be a reason to believe Reggie had kidnapped Stella when she was a small child and kept her for his own." 

"What?" Bodie said surprised. 

"Sir, that's a wild accusation." Doyle hastily said, "But one you wouldn't make without some feeling of the truth of it." 

"Aye," Cowley said, "the truth of it. That's what I want you two to discover. No secrets. No hidden agendas. Truth, all of it, nasty or not. Am I understood?" 

"Yes, sir," both men said. 

"Good. Be on your way. You're off all other assignments until this is settled, one way or the other." 

"Sir," said Bodie, "he's gone- your friend. Why not let sleeping dogs lie?" 

"Because, Bodie," Cowley said icily, "in case this is true, there could be a family who has never stopped looking for their child! They deserve to know, and Stella wants to know the truth as well."

"Yes, sir," Bodie responded meekly. "Sorry, sir." 

Doyle tugged on Bodie's sleeve, pulling him towards the door. "We'll do our best, sir." 

"Betty has the file with all the information we have at present." Cowley dropped his eyes and returned to his work. The file he'd thrown earlier remained where it had landed, in an untidy heap against the wall, a solemn testament to his distress. 

\--------------------------------------

Bodie drove across town towards their first destination, an interview with Stella Moore at the family home. 

"Nice digs," he commented, pulling up to number six. The detached house was nice, a white three story with a black iron fence around it. The gate to the drive was open. Bodie turned in. It wasn't a mansion but it was definitely an expensive bit of London real estate. 

"He did work at Whitehall so no big surprise he's got a nice place." Doyle commented. "No fountain to drive around so he wasn't that important." 

Bodie turned off the ignition. "You tell somebody's importance from whether or not they have a fountain in the drive?" 

"Of course." Doyle tossed Bodie a snarky smile. "Shift yourself or you'll miss lunch." 

"You're cruel, mate. Very cruel." Bodie put his hand over his heart. "I'm wounded." 

"You'll be bleeding if you don't move it ." 

Doyle was pressing on the bell by the time Bodie came around the car and joined him at the front door. It was opened promptly by a young woman who looked haggard. She wasn't beautiful but she was pleasant looking, with shoulder-length brown hair and nice brown eyes rimmed with red from crying. 

"I'm Doyle." Doyle held up his ID. "He's Bodie. Mr Cowley sent us." 

"Yes," she said with a nod. "I'm Stella Moore. Uncle George phoned me that you were coming. Come in." She stood back to allow them entry. 

The foyer was large and airy, two stories high, with a large dark wood staircase. It was modestly decorated with nice paintings and fresh flowers on several small tables. 

"I've made tea," Stella said, waving towards one of the archways. "Through there." 

"Thanks," Doyle said. 

Bodie gave her a warm smile. "Cheers, luv." 

Stella smiled half-heartedly. "I've laid out the contents of the box I discovered on the table." She waved towards the small table set against the wall across which a variety of newspaper clippings had been spread. She sat down and picked up her tea cup. 

Bodie began to read through the various newspaper clippings that were scattered haphazardly across the wood surface. Doyle did likewise, and it took them less than ten minutes to study the information provided. Cowley had given them photostats of some of the articles he'd had Betty print from one of the library archives but reading them in situ might give some clue that a cold reading of the file could not. There were also several that hadn't been in the file. 

Reading the clippings didn't add much to the story. The gist of them was basically the same. A young girl, aged 4, called Tamsin Hart, went missing from her home in Camden on 12 August, 1964. The girl was reported missing by her grandmother, one Elspeth Hart. No mention of the girl's parents. The search appeared to last about ten days from the dates on the clippings, the last one dated August 23rd. Then it seemed to have petered out like so many other unsolved cases, with a police force that was overworked and sometimes plain uninterested. 

The photograph of young Tamsin showed a child with pigtails and wearing a t-shirt bearing a picture of a kitten. It was hard to tell the girl's colouring from the grainy black and white photo but the paper gave her details: white, brown hair, brown eyes, weight about two and a half stone, approx. 38" in height, wearing blue pants, a white shirt with a calico cat on it, and a green hooded sweater, as well as blue trainers.

Bodie studied the girl's face intently. He looked over at Stella several times but it was impossible to tell if the woman was the girl who had been reported missing. Likewise, he intently studied the three or four full colour snapshots of young Stella that had been laid out. It certainly appeared to be the same child in both sets of photographs, but then, Bodie thought all kids that age with brown pigtails and wide eyes looked about the same. 

"Anything?" he asked Doyle quietly. 

"Looks like the same kid to me." 

"Yeah. I don't think that's the big question in this mess," Bodie said. 

"Why this kid, and who did what?" 

"Right." Doyle stacked the papers into a neat pile. "Shall we?" 

Bodie waved a hand in agreement and followed Doyle over to where Stella sat. 

"Miss Moore," Bodie said, going over to the sofa and sitting, "what can you tell us? Where and when did you find the clippings?" 

"Tea?" Stella asked. 

"Ta. I'll pour," Doyle said, sitting next to Bodie. He fixed one for each of them. 

Bodie took his cup with a nod and waited for Stella to speak. 

"I found a small metal box in my father's closet, in an old footlocker. I couldn't find the key so I opened it with a screwdriver. That's when I found all of that," she waved towards the table where the clippings lay, "inside. I was shocked, to say the least, since my father was a wonderful man. He loved me, and I loved him, deeply." 

She deliberately didn't look at the table, Bodie noticed. She struggled not to cry. Must be hard, he mused, to try and come to terms with the possibility that one's father was a criminal. How it must feel to wonder why you'd been taken as a child by a person whom you obviously loved and who had cared for you for many years. 

"Maybe the clippings are just something he was interested in," Doyle offered. 

Stella wiped at her nose with a tissue. "Thank you for suggesting that but you're not being up front with me. While the newspaper photographs aren't the best quality, there is no denying that the child is me. Plus there's the fact that there are no photographs of me as a baby in the family album. All of the pictures taken of me are from that age to the present." 

"What about your mother?" Doyle asked kindly. 

"My father always told me my mother died in a house fire when I was a baby. He said that all of our possessions were lost. He barely escaped with his life and mine, and he wasn't able to save her. It always hurt him to speak about that time so I didn't probe. But he did tell me once that everything relating to the family was destroyed in the fire. Birth certificates, passports, NHS cards, photographs, everything." 

"So you have no photographs of your mother?" Bodie asked. 

"Only one. He said it was at his office the day of the fire, which is why it survived." 

"What date was the fire?" 

Stella swallowed, dabbing her eyes. "February 2nd. 1961." 

"Thank you. Do you mind if I l see the family photo?" Doyle asked. 

"No, please do." Stella went over to the mantel and took down a framed photograph. 

"Is it okay if I look at the other ones you have out on display?" Bodie asked. 

Stella handed Doyle the framed picture. "Yes. Please. Anything if it will help." 

Doyle studied the photograph while Bodie, with his hands behind his back, intently inspected each of the other photographs lining the mantel. As Stella had said, all of them were of her father and her, and she was pictured at various ages, from about four or five through adulthood. Candid shots and school era photographs were arranged neatly in two rows. There was what appeared to be her graduation from university, along with two or three recent ones: one of them skiing, one at a beach, and one posed, with both Stella and her father, arms around each other's waists, smiling at the camera. They looked like a loving child and parent. 

"May I remove this from the frame?" Doyle asked. At Stella's nod, he carefully extracted it from behind the pressed board backing. Studying the backside of the photograph, he said, "It's professionally done. Got a stamp on it, no date. Bernard's. There's an address. We'll check it out. May we take this? We promise to return it." 

"Yes, please. Anything." 

"Thanks." Doyle set the frame to the side. "How did your father and Mr Cowley meet?" 

"Dad said they first met at Whitehall. Both worked as clerks in some minor positions, from what I've been told. I do wonder though, sometimes about that, considering Uncle George is now head of CI5." Stella chewed on her lower lip for a moment. "I think they were both in some branch or another of the secret service but I never asked. I knew better than that." 

Bodie rejoined them, sitting next to Doyle. He picked up the framed family portrait. It was a colour photo that showed a younger Reginald Moore and a pretty woman holding a baby wrapped in a blanket. Moore was wearing a nice brown suit with a white shirt and red tie. He had his arm around his wife. Mrs Moore was dressed in a green dress with a matching hat. Her brown hair tumbled to her shoulders, flipping up at the ends. She carried the baby wrapped in a pink blanket decorated with little yellow ducks. He returned his attention to the conversation. 

"Sometimes it's probably best not to ask. There are many times when people who work for the government aren't allowed to discuss their jobs with even their closest family members." Doyle gave Stella a smile. "We'll do what we can to either prove or disprove all of this." 

"You'll tell me no matter what." Stella looked from Bodie to Doyle and back again. "Whatever it is, I need to know." 

Doyle shifted uncomfortably. "There might be things we can't disclose, depending on what our investigation uncovers."

"You understand. Secrets Act and all that," Bodie said. 

"I'm not asking either of you to reveal state secrets. I'm asking you to tell me whether or not my own father-" Stella sighed, wiping her eyes. "If he is my father, no matter what," she whispered. 

"Stella," Bodie said, standing up to put a hand on her shoulder. "You said he was a good father. Those photographs show he cared. He'll always be your da. But Doyle and I will do what we can to figure this out." 

"Thank you." Stella rose. "Thank you." 

"Sure." Doyle picked up the framed photograph. "Mr Cowley will tell you everything he can once we're done." 

"You have my phone number?" she asked. 

"It's in the file Cowley gave us. We'll call if we have any more questions. Be patient," Doyle said. 

With final good-byes, the partners made their way to the Capri. 

"Nice looking bird." Bodie paused, tossing the keys from one hand to the other. He stared down at them as they clinked. "What a mess." 

"What are you thinking?" Doyle asked.

"This is one time when I don't have a bloody clue." Bodie shrugged, looking over the roof at Doyle. "Lots of questions and not many answers. Could be complete bollocks." 

"But those clippings prove it's her. I don't think there's any question about that." 

"Maybe she was legally adopted. Maybe the press didn't know Tamsin had been found and put up for adoption." 

Doyle scoffed. "That seems unlikely." 

"I'm just musing, Sherlock. It a weird thing, that's for sure." 

"Well, Watson, a big weird question would be how in holy hell did he get a job at Whitehall?" 

"He'd have been vetted to within an inch of his life." Bodie wrinkled his nose. "They'd have known what size his dick was. Look at what Cowley did to us when we joined this mob." 

Doyle nodded. "Yet we know there are spies and traitors in those hallowed halls. Why not somebody who could be bought?" 

Bodie put his hand over his heart. "Bought? Doyle, in our government! Not a chance." 

With a snort of laughter, Doyle said, "Right. Pure as the driven snow, that lot. " 

"Call into HQ and see if they can run a check on that fire. If somebody'd been killed then there should be records somewhere. Coppers or newspapers." 

"Library on microfiche?" 

Body groaned. "Hate reading those things. Would rather the computer spit out the intel. Photography studio instead?" he begged as he got into the car and started it. 

Doyle gave him an affectionate smile. "All right. If it's still there." He leaned forward to retrieve the mic.

"It's on the way. Let's have lunch first. There's a good pub near there." 

"You are a bottomless pit." 

"Yet you expect me to maintain some level of competence to service you in the evenings." 

Doyle gave Bodie the two finger salute. In response, Bodie stepped on the accelerator enthusiastically. Doyle valiantly tried to call in the information request while Bodie drove like a maniac across town. 

"Slow down! Can't hear meself think with all the gears you're grinding! Mandy," he shouted into the mic, "say again?" 

Cackling, Bodie pressed on the accelerator even harder. 

\---------------------------------

Lunch made Bodie happy. They'd first driven past the address that had been stamped on the back of Stella's photo and were pleasantly surprised to see it was still operating. A short distance away was the pub Bodie had mentioned. The lunch was decent, chicken and chips, and being good agents, they limited themselves to one pint each until they were finished up for the day. It was a pleasant afternoon and they decided to walk. After eating, they paused at the car to snag the framed photograph to show at the studio before setting off. Side by side, they walked down the pavement. Bodie liked how Doyle managed to bump their shoulders together several times. Any outing with Doyle beside him was somehow elevated to being special. Christ, he had it bad! 

The shop had an Open sign hanging on the door. In the display windows on either side of the entryway were many framed photographs of men, women, and children, and even the occasional dog or cat, and one white rabbit. Weddings, birthdays, and family portraits were visible to entice passersby inside to pay for professionally done photographs of life's events. 

"After you," Bodie said, opening the door and bowing gallantly for Doyle. 

Doyle laughed. "You're such a prat." As he passed Bodie, he whispered, "You're lucky I like you." 

Bodie gave a toothy grin and following Doyle into the shop, admiring the tight denim jeans that showed off Doyle's assets nicely. His Ray had such a fine arse. Pulling his eyes away, he took in the interior. Nothing remarkable, but neatly kept. It was a good size rectangle of a room. There were a lot of framed photographs covering the walls. One display case held silver and gold frames with more frames along the top of the glass case. A cash register sat on a bench, along with miniature frames in various colours and shapes. Empty frames were displayed on a heavy-looking wooden table along one wall. 

The floor was covered in several colourful Persian-style rugs and at the far end of the room was an archway curtained off with a dark burgundy material that looked velvety from where Bodie stood. There was one door at the rear of the shop that was closed. 

At the register was a man and when the agents entered, he looked up and smiled. "Good afternoon, gentlemen! May I help you?" 

"Yes, please." Doyle walked over and handed the man the photograph. "Are you Mr Bernard?"

"Yes." 

"I'm Doyle. He's Bodie." Doyle held up his ID. "Do you recognize these people?" 

"Oh, my. Is something wrong?" Mr Bernard asked. 

"No. We're just following a line of enquiry," Doyle answered. 

Bodie browsed the shop, and he surprised himself when his thoughts went to a strange place. He would like a nice photograph of he and Doyle. Oh, he had a few snapshots and Doyle sometimes played around, taking their photographs, but he wanted a real portrait, a keepsake. Forcing away the thought, he went over to Doyle and nodded at Mr Bernard. 

"Any help you can give us would be much appreciated," Bodie offered. 

"I know the woman." 

"Could we have her name and address?" Bodie asked. 

"No need. Wait just a second." Bernard went to the door and opened it. He disappeared for a moment and returned with a woman. 

Bodie looked from the woman to the photo and back again. "Mrs Moore?" 

"Eh?" Doyle asked. 

"No," Mr Bernard said. "Not Mrs Moore. This is my wife, Georgia. She was the model in that photograph." 

Bodie stared at the woman. She was definitely the woman from Stella's picture. 

"Do you remember this man?" Doyle asked, handing Mrs Bernard the frame. 

Mrs Bernard smiled, taking the photograph. She studied it for a few moments before she handed it back. "Oh yes. I do remember this! The gentleman- I don't remember his name but I remember the circumstances." 

"Which were...?" Bodie prompted. 

"He wanted a professionally done photograph for his business." 

"Which was what?" Doyle asked. 

"Insurance. It was to show the happy family and the importance of life insurance for your loved ones." 

"Whose child was it?" Bodie asked. 

"Oh, there was no baby." 

Bodie rubbed his forehead. "No baby?" 

"No. It was a doll. I didn't have a baby at that time and the gentleman wasn't concerned about it being a doll since you can't see the child. It's the idea of it." She smiled at the agents. "It was for an advertisement. We offered a better price if we took the photographs and supplied whatever else was needed: model, props. Whatever was necessary depending on the business." Mrs Moore paused, looking from Doyle to Bodie, clasping her hands together. "Is something wrong? It was so long ago. I hope there's no problem." 

"Mr Bernard, would you know the date this was taken?" Doyle asked. 

Mr Bernard nodded. "I keep complete records. Let me check. I have a file cabinet in the back room so give me a few minutes." 

"Of course. We'll wait," Bodie said. 

"I'm so sorry," Mrs Bernard said. 

"No worries," Doyle said reassuringly. "You haven't done anything wrong nor have you caused any trouble. This is just a routine enquiry." 

"Honestly? I'd hate to cause anybody any distress." Mrs Bernard gave a small smile. 

A customer entered so the woman went to help him. Bodie moved closer to Doyle. "I'll bet you a fiver that photograph was taken after Stella was kidnapped." 

"I'm not taking that bet because I think that's exactly what-" 

"Oh, here we are!" Mr Bernard bustled back into the shop. "I've written it down for you." He handed Doyle the paper. "As well as the address the gentleman, Mr Smith, gave me." 

"Thank you for your help," Doyle said, turning to leave. 

"Photograph," Bodie reminded him. 

"Cheers." Doyle followed Bodie out of the shop. He paused on the pavement. "Good thing I didn't take that bet. I'd be out a quid right now." 

"You'd have been out a fiver," Bodie reminded him, reading over his shoulder. 

The date Moore had had the advertising portrait taken was 14 November 1964. Almost three months after Tamsin had been kidnapped. 

"Surprise, surprise," Bodie muttered. "There was no advertising and no insurance company." 

"Yeah," Doyle agreed. "Marvellous. I'm not the one who's going to tell the Cow his mate is a nasty kidnapper." 

"And I am?" 

With a waggle of his eyebrow, Doyle said, "We'll flip for it." 

Bodie glared. Doyle took out a coin and tossed it, covering it with his hand when it landed. With a deep sigh, Bodie said, "Tails." 

Doyle look his hand away. "Heads. You lose." 

"Trust me when I say after Cowley is finished with me, I'll be too bruised to do right by you tonight so no whingeing when you go to bed unfulfilled." 

"I shall endeavour to persevere," Doyle said smartly. 

Scowling, Bodie snapped, "I hate you sometimes." 

\-------------------------------

"We should go and talk to the grannie," Bodie said once he'd headed back towards HQ. 

"You're trying to avoid the inevitable." 

"And what would that be, pray tell?" 

"Telling Cowley the big news." 

"No," Bodie said patiently, "I'm trying to gather all the information before I tell Father the big news. I am, after all, a diligent and competent investigator." 

Doyle burst out laughing. "Of course you are." He looked up the grandmother's address in the file he'd stuffed under the seat. "Don't know this one." After a quick look at the A-Z, he groaned. "Christ, it will take at least ninety minutes to get clear back across town to this place!" 

Bodie smiled. "I'm not in any hurry as long as we stop for a drink afterwards." 

Sighing, Doyle pushed the file back to its temporary home. "All right. Not that I blame you. Besides, you know I wouldn't let you face the Cow alone." 

Bodie cast Doyle a glance. "You're joking, right? You love nothing better than when Cowley strips the flesh from me hide and leaves me bleedin' on the floor!" 

"Are you going to stop for the red light?" Doyle said conversationally. 

Bodie looked up, mashing the brake pedal, laying two strips of rubber as he came to an abrupt stop. "Pillock." After the light turned green, he asked, "Directions." 

"Follow my lead. We won't get lost." 

\------------------------------------

Indeed they were lost, for about fifteen minutes, before they stopped and looked at the A-Z once again. 

"There," Bodie scoffed, pointing his finger at a place on the map. "You took a wrong turn!" 

Doyle grinned sheepishly. "Not my patch, is it?" 

"All of London is your patch, my son." 

Righting the car, Bodie found the correct place shortly. They pulled into an empty space and stared at the building. A long, red brick two-story building with a dozen entry doors emptying directly onto the pavement. 

"Not exactly the Ritz," Doyle said. 

"Not exactly." Bodie climbed from the car. 

When Doyle had joined him, they walked up the pavement to number eight together. Bodie knocked and the door was answered quickly by an older woman. Gray hair nicely coiffed, neatly dressed in a blouse and trousers, and with dark glasses on her nose. 

"Yes?" she asked. 

"Mrs Elspeth Hart? I'm Bodie. He's Doyle." Bodie showed his identification.

Mrs Hart's eyes narrowed somewhat. "What this about?" While her tone was cordial, it held a touch of suspicion. 

"May we come in and speak with you, please?" Doyle asked, giving her a smile. 

She paused, looking from one man to the other before she nodded and stepped back. "First door on the left." 

Bodie was pleasantly surprised to see the house, while somewhat shabby outside, was neat as a pin inside. Every surface was dusted and the furniture, while older, was also clean. In the lounge, the wood floors that rimmed the orange variegated carpet were shiny and everything was in its place. On the long wooden shelf that was affixed under the front window were a variety of photographs. Bodie couldn't see all the details from across the room but right now, he wanted to make Mrs Hart feel like she could talk to them before he inspected the photos. 

"Sit down. Tea?" 

"No, thank you." Doyle took a seat on the sofa. 

Bodie sat down in the leather chair and the woman sat next to Doyle. She clasped her hands together and waited. 

"We're here about your granddaughter, Tamsin," Doyle said. 

Mrs Hart's eyes went wide. "You've found her?" 

"You believe she is still alive, then?" Bodie asked. 

"Never had cause to believe otherwise." 

"We can't talk about an ongoing investigation but we would like your help. We're following new leads and new information regarding Tamsin that has surfaced recently." Doyle turned slightly to face the woman. "Can you tell us about Tamsin and her parents? About what happened when you reported her missing? Anything could help." 

Mrs Hart brightened. "If you had news about her death or found an unidentified body of a child I think you'd be more somber. I'm thinking you've found my granddaughter alive and well, and on that assumption, I'm willing to answer every single question you might have.

"Tamsin's mother, my Donna was a sweet girl until she met that piece of shite, Omar Cole. Oh, I know it was her fault, it was the drugs. Nobody forced that needle into her arm each and every time for two long, miserable years, but nobody but me tried to get her help. That bastard Omar encouraged her drug usage. He used himself and he wanted somebody to wallow in that misery with him." Mrs Hart sighed deeply. "Donna went willingly." 

"I kept telling her that her duty was to her daughter but she was too far gone to care, either emotionally or physically. I kept Tamsin away from her and that horrible man as much as I could. But there were those times when she wasn't high. She'd go for a few days or a week without drugs. Then she'd come over and cry, begging me to let her have her daughter." 

"So Omar Cole wasn't the girl's father?" Bodie asked. 

"No. I actually don't know who the father was. She refused to tell me. What I did know is she wasn't capable of caring for that child, but she threatened to go to the police and tell them I'd kidnapped my own granddaughter! I didn't handle it well. I made threats of my own. Said I'd tell social services myself. In the end, neither of us followed through because we were both terrified the authorities would take Tamsin away." Mrs Hart paused, swiping at her eyes. 

"In the long run, wouldn't that have been best for the girl?" Doyle asked quietly. 

Bodie looked at him, surprised he'd stick his nose into this. Doyle didn't know when to keep his notions to himself sometimes. 

Mrs Hart's breath hitched. She nodded slowly. "With hindsight, yes. But at the time all I wanted to do was protect her. She was a sweet little thing, loved kittens and her dollies. She was bright and sunny." Mrs Hart laughed softly. "She invented this entire world for herself and her invisible friend, Stella." 

Bodie stared at Doyle, his eyes wide. Stella? Coincidence? Fate? Doyle met his eyes, raising an eyebrow, clearly on the same wavelength as Bodie. 

"Ma'am, do you have a good photograph of Tamsin at the age she was when she went missing that we could take with us? We'll return it unharmed," Bodie asked. "The ones in the old newspapers aren't very good." 

"Yes, of course." 

When Mrs Hart left the room to fetch the photographs, Doyle said, "I'm going to show her the photo of the happy family." 

"Why?" 

"Don't know. Just a feeling." 

Bodie shrugged. "Run with it, then." 

Doyle smiled. He went out to the car while Bodie waited for Mrs Hart to return. While she was gone he walked past the array of frames on the low shelf. It was apparent that this little girl was the same child in Stella's photographs. They'd found the kidnapped child. 

Mrs Hart returned after a few minutes and handed Bodie several photos, two in full colour and one black and white. 

"I have doubles of that one," she said, pointing to one of the coloured pictures, "so you can use it for- What are you going to do with such old photos?" She studied Bodie for a long moment. "You've found my granddaughter, haven't you? Why don't you tell me what's going on?" Her voice rose as she spoke. 

"Please, I promise as soon as our investigation is concluded, our supervisor will tell you everything he can. You have to be patient. You've been patient for all these years. A few more days, and I believe you'll have answers to all of your questions." Bodie smiled, hoping to assuage her for the time being. "Would you please tell me how your daughter passed away?" 

"Overdose. About six months after Tamsin disappeared." Mrs Hart glanced over at a framed photograph showing a young woman of about eighteen or nineteen, smiling at the camera. "She never recovered. Blamed herself for her girl's disappearance." She sighed but then her tone turned harsh. "I wasn't the least bit unhappy when I'd heard that Omar died in the gaol. He was a miserable shite." 

Doyle entered, pausing in the doorway. "Would you please look at this photo for us and see if you recognise anyone?" 

"Of course," Mrs Hart said, regaining her composure. She stared down at the photograph in her hands. "Oh! Why yes! That's Ronnie!" 

Bodie blurted out, "You mean Reggie?" without even thinking about it. Doyle slanted a questioning look his way. 

"No. No. His name was Ronnie. Although he looks a lot better here than when I last saw him." 

"How was that?" Doyle asked. 

"He was one of the junkies who hung out with Donna and Omar. I saw him several times when I went to get Tamsin at Donna and Omar's flat. He came here with them once." She handed back the picture. 

"Do you happen to remember his surname?" Bodie asked. 

"Hmmm," Mrs Hart said, pursing her lips. "Let me think. It was a funny name. I remember them calling him Tweety. It used to make him really annoyed. Tweety, yes that's it." 

"Tweety was his surname?" Doyle asked. 

"No, not at all." Mrs Hart gave a sad chuckle. "My old brain still works sometimes. Bird. His last name was Bird." 

\-----------------------

"I'm tired and hungry," Bodie whinged, driving back across London towards HQ. "Let's put off going to see the Cow. It's late and my eyes are burning." 

"Big tough bloke like you? Tired? Bah," Doyle said unsympathetically. However, he picked up the mic and called in. "4.5 to base." 

"Go ahead, 4.5" 

"Tell Cowley we're heading in to brief him." 

"Mister Cowley is out of the office presently. He'll take your report at 7 a.m. sharp. Base out." 

"Wha-hey!!" Bodie cried. "We're freeee!" 

"Can't say I'm sad about it. Pint?" 

"Definitely. Dinner and then..." Bodie wagged an eyebrow suggestively at Doyle.

Doyle punched his arm and laughed. "I thought you were exhausted and ready to keel over on your face." 

"I'll fall over when we're close to a bed." 

"You're not falling on me, you big lug. You're on the bottom tonight. Not having you go to sleep on top of me and squashing me flat. 

"Raymond, you are such a romantic sometimes I can barely stand it." 

\--------------------------------

Bodie felt darned good after last night. As he walked into HQ with Doyle beside him, all was right with his world. He'd had a good meal at the pub, washed down with a lager. A nice malt wrapped up the evening, along with a nice Ray in a giving mood. Must have been Doyle's own meal and malt that had set properly with him because when they got to Doyle's flat, which was closest at hand, Doyle had obligingly given him a blow job that made his hair curl. Being a gentleman, he had returned the pleasure. 

With a cocky grin, Bodie swaggered over to Betty's desk. "Hello, luv," he said charmingly, hitching a hip on the edge of the desk to lean down at her suggestively. "How's your day been so far?" 

"Bodie, get your backside off my desk," she said coolly. To Doyle, she was much warmer. "4.5, Mr Cowley was called out unexpectedly so he's not here to take your report. His orders are to continue on your assignment and he will request a full report when he's ready to hear it." Betty gave Doyle a smile. "Take your partner and go to work." Betty returned to her typewriter, dismissing both men without another word. 

"She's taking tips from the best, eh?" Bodie said. "Pretty soon the Cow won't have to bother coming in. Betty will run the entire place from her desk, right there." 

Doyle snickered. He curled a finger at Bodie. "Come on, you. There's work to be done. Let's get this assignment wrapped up and done with." 

"A bit eager, aren't we?" Bodie asked. Turning away, Doyle started down the hallway. Bodie trotted up beside him. "What?" 

"Don't know. Got a bad feeling about this mess." 

"Hmmm. Okay." Bodie studied Doyle for a moment. "Rather have this one done and dusted as well." 

"Well, then, hurry up!" Doyle clattered down the steps to the car park level. 

"Running all the way, 4.5," Bodie called after him. He didn't rush. After all, he had the car keys. 

\-------------------------------

At the car, Bodie leaned against it. "We've forgot something." 

Doyle looked up from the nail he was worrying. "And what's that?" 

"Computer check we requested yesterday." 

With a sigh, Doyle nodded. "Right. The fire. Back to the computer room." 

Bodie stopped him with a hand on his arm. "You okay?" 

"Yeah. Had a weird dream last night, is all." 

"Anything you want to tell me?" 

"Nah. It's okay. I think it's the case. It's not a big deal but knowing that this bloke kidnapped a little kid and nobody ever knew. It's creepy. I'd rather be in a gun fight." 

"I get that. It is creepy. We didn't ask her anything about, you know," Bodie paused, "abuse. Maybe that Moore guy used her. After all, she wasn't his kid." 

"You mean sexual?" Doyle looked sick. 

"It happens." Bodie felt as sick as Doyle looked. "But we don't know that so let's not jump to any conclusions." 

Doyle gave Bodie a measured look before he finally nodded. "No sense asking for more problems unless there's a good reason." 

"Right." 

"Right." Doyle gave Bodie a half-hearted smile. "Computer room." 

\----------------------------

"Hello, Mandy," Doyle said as he walked up to the woman's work area. "Any joy on that request about the fire?" 

Mandy glared at Doyle, then Bodie. "I can't imagine how you two function. I couldn't hear a thing you were screaming on the two-way. Bodie was chortling like a loon. You two need minders." 

"Ah, luv, we're just two lovable creatures who are enjoying life," Bodie said jovially. 

"Right," Mandy said. "You're two mad bastards who need to be kept on long leashes." 

Bodie raised an eyebrow. Doyle laughed. They looked at each other, entirely amused. 

"I have no objection to being kept on a leash," Bodie offered, "by any good-looking woman. I look exceedingly handsome in leather." 

Doyle elbowed Bodie, making him 'oof'. 

Mandy blushed. "I should put you both on report." 

Doyle put a hand over his heart. "I was working. He's the one who was trouble-making!" 

"Where one goes, the other is sure to follow. Here." She slapped a sheet of computer printer paper down on the end of her table. "No fires in 1961 fitting the parameters you gave me with any name closely resembling Reginald Moore, or any combination thereof." 

"Could it not have been entered in the database?" Bodie asked. 

"Only way to tell would be to go to the library or the newspaper archives, and search. But our records are fairly complete and more information is entered into the database every week." Mandy looked screen in front of her. "But it could have slipped through the cracks. Anything's possible." 

"Can you run a name for us?" Doyle asked. 

"As long as it's work related," Mandy said. 

"Of course. Ronald Bird aka Tweety Bird." 

Mandy slowly looked up at Doyle. "You're joking. I swear, 4.5, if you're trying one on-" 

"No, no, he's serious," Bodie said, rushing to Doyle's defence. "Ronald Bird, born approximately 1940. Possible form, possible drug user." 

"Okay." Mandy eyed them closely before she turned her attention to the screen and tapped the information on the keyboard, hitting enter. 

Bodie watched over one shoulder while Doyle took up a place on her other side. The green screen was blank for a few moments before lines of text began to appear, white and fuzzy. 

Mandy read the important parts aloud: "Ronald Bird, DOB March 22, 1941; parents... both deceased. Aliases... here it is. Tweety Bird, Birdman, Firebird, Fred Smith. Fred Smith? Arrests... This bloke was busy. Drugs, theft, robbery. Why wasn't he in jail?" She read a bit more aloud. "Nasty one, this. I'll print this out for you." 

"Told you we weren't trying to take the piss. This is the guy. Our guy," Doyle said. 

Mandy tapped another key. The screen flickered before it scrolled up to another page. "Oh, Jesus. No. This is bad." 

Both men leaned down over her shoulder. "Christ." Bodie said. 

"I knew it. I knew something was wrong." Doyle clenched his fists. "Child pornography." 

"Alleged," Bodie said. 

Doyle glared at him. "You know this is true." 

"I don't have to like it," Bodie snapped. 

While Doyle continued to read the information on the screen, Bodie went to the printer and waited until it stopped so he could rip off the printout. 

"Bodie," Doyle called over, "everything about him disappears. Nothing after 1961." 

"Tax records? Marriages? Car registrations?" Bodie asked. "Death date?"

"Nope." Doyle kept his eyes on the computer screen. He tapped the monitor. "This is our guy, the disgusting bastard!" 

Walking back over to Doyle's side, he gave his partner a knowing look. "Look at this. Known associates include one Omar Cole. We've got him," he said excitedly. "Now all we have to do is figure out why he took the girl and we're done with this one." 

"Yeah, all we've got to do," Doyle echoed, sounding sceptical. "Might as well have asked us to find out what brand of knickers the Queen wears." 

"That would've been easier," Bodie said. "I'd have just rung her up and asked." At Doyle's sceptical laugh, he added with conviction, "You do know she takes my calls."

"Right. And I'm the bloody Duke of Edinburgh." 

"You would look smashing in that uniform." Bodie stood rooted in his spot. "Hang about, mate. Mandy, luv," he said sweetly, "could you run another name for us. Pretty please?" 

"You are working. This is official, right?" 

Bodie gave Doyle a quick grin. Doyle nodded. Bodie had a warm feeling when he saw that Doyle picked up his thought. He and Doyle worked well together, on the same wave length. 

"Yes," Doyle answered. "Please run Omar Cole." 

Mandy did as asked, and in a short time the computer printer was sending out more information. Bodie read the pages, holding them so Doyle could read as well. 

Doyle let out a low whistle. "The man has form. And a lot of it. Died in prison, like Mrs Hart said. We need the reason he was sent up. Police records, or trial. Wonder if the newspaper covered his trial or if he was just a petty criminal. Look at his known associates." 

Bodie read aloud, "Donna Hart, Ronald Bird, Henry Forsythe.... Why does Forsythe sound familiar?" 

"Hmmm... Not sure but it does." 

"When did you join the coppers?" Bodie asked. 

"1968." 

"So you wouldn't have been around in 1961," Bodie mused. 

"Around, skipping school, and causing trouble," Doyle muttered. 

"I was gone from this fair isle by then. I was merely a slip of a lad back then." Bodie paused. "No clue why it sounds familiar. Maybe something I'd read." 

"You can read?" Doyle teased. 

"Stuff it, Ray. Mandy, how about Henry Forsythe, circa 1960-1961?" Bodie asked. 

Mandy dutifully punched in the name. The computer took much longer this time, finally revealing its information. "Twenty-two names. Shall I print the information?" 

"Yeah. Please," Doyle said. He stood by the printer, tore off the pages and joined Bodie. "What now?" 

"We need to sit down and make some sort of time line with this information, but first, library. The information on these Forsythes is far too vague. If this Henry Forsythe tickles your funny bone, then we need to see why." 

"I hate the library." Bodie dutifully followed Doyle from the computer room but he shuffled his feet to let his partner know he wasn't happy. 

Doyle looked over his shoulder. "It's because you're allergic to books." 

"I am not. I like books. Ian Fleming, Graham Green, Joseph Conrad. I read good books!" 

"Down boy. I'll hold your hand. It will be fine." 

Bodie gave a disgusted look. "It's all dusty. Gets right up me hooter." 

"Do you ever stop complaining?" 

"I will if-" 

Doyle poked a finger at him. "Do not mention food or drink once or I'll strip the flesh from your bones." 

Bodie made a gesture of zipping his mouth shut and tossing the key. He'd give Doyle half an hour of peace, then all bets were off. He would have a beer and a hamburger before the hour was out. If Doyle groused too much, then he'd have chips as well. 

\--------------------------------

"Microfiche. Why do they call it that?" Bodie whinged, sliding the next film sheet into the viewer. "There are no gills or fins or water." 

"If you'd stop talking and read faster we could get out of- Bloody hell and damnation." 

"What?" Bodie rolled over to Doyle's machine on the wheeled stool. Doyle was hitting the Print button. "You are joking. Jesus, that's it!" 

The main headline for 14 October 1961, read: "Child Porn King Forsythe Sentenced! Life Term!" 

"I never thought about this sort of thing," Doyle admitted. "I thought Moore was a pervert and kidnapped Stella for god knows what, but it looks like... Not sure what it looks like." 

Bodie took the print out from the slot. Scanning the article, he said, "Listen to this. Forsythe's known associates, Bruno Parsetti and Omar Cole, received similar sentences. It gives details of the case, and get this, the entire Forsythe gang was grassed by an unnamed informant who is now-" He paused, "I need a drum roll." 

Doyle patted his knee. "That's all you're getting so get on with it." 

"This unnamed informant is now in protective custody and will be given a new identity." Bodie raised his head to stare at Doyle. "Do you think Moore was the informant? He knows Omar. He's in some sort of gang. Mrs Hart said they were all criminals. Moore aka Bird rolls over on his mates and the entire child pornography ring is busted." 

Doyle waved a hand. "Bird goes to the coppers and agrees to grass the entire Forsythe organisation in exchange for a new identity. But what about Tamsin? How does she fit into this entire scheme?" 

"Omar's dead, right? So we can't ask him. Donna, the mum, is dead. Mrs Hart doesn't have a clue," Bodie mused. He stared at Doyle. "Wildest guess?" 

"Go for it." 

"Bird sees Tamsin when Omar brings her 'round. Omar's a junkie. He needs a fix. Donna's a junkie. She needs a fix." 

"Wait. Do not tell me you think they- what? Sold the kid to this Forsythe?" Doyle looked like he'd be sick. 

"Maybe not sold the actual kid, but sold her for photographs. Bird sees the kid. Maybe he hasn't seen any of the kids up to now, only pushed the product or maybe he just ran the money. But anyway, Bird sees this sweet little girl. Forsythe or one of his gorillas is feeding her ice-cream or sweets. Drugs the kid. Undresses-. "Bodie felt his belly churn. He put a hand over it. "You get the picture. He grasses the lot. Keeps the kid! Actually keeps the kid, telling the coppers it's his kid and she needs identity protection too." 

"What? They don't question that? I could see it though. The girl's not been kidnapped yet so it hasn't been in the papers. So even those couple of days later when the girl is reported missing, the coppers in this nick have no clue what the coppers in that nick are doing." 

Doyle ran a hand through his hair, making it crackle with static. Bodie almost reached out to pat down the wild curls but he kept himself in check. Later, he promised himself. 

"Right. No computers. Even on a city wide bulletin one of them would have to recognise Tamsin from her photo. What are the chances they even looked if they were busy busting this huge porno ring?" Bodie chewed on a fingernail. "Still, how could Bird get a deal done that night?" 

Doyle held Bodie's gaze. Bodie could almost hear the gears whirring in that brain. Doyle's eyes went wide. "He was already undercover for the Met!" 

Bodie grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "Bingo!" 

"Shhh. Not so loud." 

"Sorry." Bodie lowered his head to Doyle's. "It fits. It works. Even without the police reports or the trial documents, it works." 

"All except for Bird keeping the kid." 

"Yeah, that's the kicker, isn't it? He has to believe that Donna will shoot up once too often and bite it, and he knows Omar's going to jail. We don't know if he was even the girl's real dad. But Bird doesn't bother to check or doesn't care if there are other relatives because in his mind, they'd have already protected the girl if they cared about her." 

"In Bird's mind, he's saving her life. I doubt we'll ever know," Doyle said softly. "Good grief. Was he a nutter? Because nobody in their right mind keeps a kid that they've practically found!" 

"Trust me, mate, I don't have a clue." Bodie paused before he pushed himself back across the room. He flipped through a box dated 1973. 

"What?" Doyle asked.

"Forsythe. It's been bugging me and this fine set of brain cells finally clicked all the info into place." Bodie pulled a microfiche sheet from the box. "Let's see." He scrolled through the newspaper scans until he found the one he was looking for. "And here it is." 

Doyle came over, leaned onto Bodie's back and read over his shoulder. "Child Molester Henry Forsythe Gunned Down In The Road!" 

"Your brain cells are fantastic. Wow. Shot on the road in front of Harrod's in the middle of the day by one of the kids' parents. Killed instantly." 

"I remember when this happened now that I'm reading about it. When he was released from custody there was marching in the roads by protesters. Some of me mates were sent in to help with any rioting. One of them was hurt during a to-do and was retired out of service." 

"I'm not sorry he was killed." 

"Raymond, I thought you believed in law and order." 

"Stuff it, Bodie. You know what I mean." 

"Yeah, I know," Bodie said sympathetically. "We need to make our report to the old man. See if he buys our theory." 

"It's as good as any, considering everybody is dead but Stella, who was only four, and the grandmother, who didn't know a thing." Doyle put away the sheets he'd taken from their boxes and switched off his machine. "The only good thing is if Cowley agrees, Stella can meet her grand-mum." 

Bodie let out a snort and a roll of his eyes. "If the Cow agrees. I can't say we've ever had such a mess before." 

"In the end, we did it. We worked it out." Doyle put a hand on Bodie's arm. "Pub?"

Bodie brightened. "I thought you'd never ask." 

\-------------------------------------

Bodie sat in a chair in front of Cowley's desk, his hands clasped loosely on his lap. Doyle stood behind him, and even though Bodie couldn't see him, he knew Doyle would be slouching against the file cabinet, one hip canted. It was a good thing he couldn't see his partner because he knew without a doubt that Doyle's cock would be pressed against the tight denim of his jeans. Best he not ogle Doyle's crotch in front of Cowley. 

"Sir?" Bodie said, realising he was not paying attention to either Cowley or Doyle. 

Cowley sighed. "Doyle was telling me your theory." 

"Yes, sir. We don't have much to go on other than our theory. Most of the players in this game are dead. Stella was too young, and Mrs Hart didn't have a clue." 

"I agree with you about your assumptions." Cowley looked from Bodie to Doyle. 

"Really?" Doyle said, sounding surprised. 

"Aye, 4.5. I made a few inquiries of my own whilst you and Master Bodie were off investigating. Might I say you both did an admirable job, and my own discovers align with enough of yours to give me reason to agree." 

"Well, great," Bodie said, not quite sure what to do with this humble praise from his controller. 

"Anything you can share with us?" Doyle asked. 

Cowley took off his glasses and began wiping them with his handkerchief. "Pour us a glass, Doyle, and sit down. Please." 

"Sir." Doyle poured three measures of Cowley's good whiskey. He handed Bodie a glass and put one before his boss. 

Once he was seated, Cowley said, "You're both good men and good investigators." 

Bodie was again surprised at the praise. The Cow wasn't one to toss compliments about so every one he made was appreciated. 

"Because Reggie was with me at Whitehall, I considered the possibility that there was more to his story that I didn't know. I was correct. I made some discreet inquiries. I still have some contacts from the old days." He smiled. "No one was bribed or coerced to allow Reggie into the government position he held from 1961 until his death. He was indeed an undercover police officer at Scotland Yard and his reward for risking his life to bring down that that child pornography ring was his new identity and position." Cowley paused, cleared his throat. "No one, and I mean no one but a single minister, knew that Reggie Moore was Ronald Bird. It is amazing that such a secret remained that way for all of these years but it did." 

"Did your contact know anything about the child?" Bodie asked. 

Cowley sighed. "He had no idea that Stella was not Reggie's true child. In that, Reggie never broke his silence as far as I know." 

"What will you do now, sir?" Doyle asked. 

"I shall have to give that my consideration," Cowley said. 

"We both think that if Miss Moore and Mrs Hart wish it, they should meet. After all," Doyle said, "neither has any family and it would nice if something good came of this." 

Bodie shrugged. "As far as Moore was concerned, something good did come of his actions. He had to have been convinced that he'd saved a child's life. Otherwise he wouldn't have bothered or cared." 

"Enough of this," Cowley said. "Go on, the both of you. You've got forty-eight hours before you need to report in. Friday, no later than 8 am. There's a special briefing on some counter-terrorists rumoured to be heading to our island." 

"Sir," Bodie said, not wasting a second after he'd been dismissed. Doyle followed closely behind and they practically ran from Cowley's office before he could change his mind. 

"I know what I'm doing for two days," Bodie said. 

"Eating?" Doyle said smartly. 

"No." Bodie leaned close to Doyle's ear. "I'm not letting you out of bed. I don't even want food. I want nothing but sex, sex, and more sex." 

Doyle trotted down the stairs towards the lower level. "You are so bleedin' romantic I can hardly stand it." He didn't bother looking back but walked briskly towards his motor. "I'm driving." 

Bodie caught up with him. He spun him around, looked about to be sure they were alone, and then pulled him close. "Your kisses are enough to nourish me. Your love fills my entire body with satiation. Your countenance-" 

Doyle shoved him away. "Shut it, Shakespeare." 

Bodie grinned devilishly. He climbed in the passenger's side. "But first-" 

"And here it is," Doyle said, looking heavenward. 

Praying, Bodie reckoned, for patience. Sometimes Bodie wondered why Doyle didn't put a bullet in his head. After all, he could be a right pillock sometimes! 

"But you love me," Bodie said with conviction. 

With a look of resignation, Doyle asked, "Indian or chippy?" 

"Pizza! With extra pepperoni!" Bodie rubbed his hands together. 

"I want veg on my half." 

"Anything for you, m'lord." Bodie touched his forelock. 

"And you're payin'." Doyle stomped on the accelerator. 

Bodie held onto the door frame, laughing wildly. "It's gonna be a bumpy night!" he said in his worse Bette Davis voice. 

Doyle blew him a kiss.

\-----------------------------------

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in the BistoCon 2018 zine. Thanks to my editors/betas, and to my fellow con-com members.


End file.
